


I Hart U - a valentines story

by EffingEden



Series: Hart And Maynard (And Shavi) [1]
Category: Original Work
Genre: BDSM, Cutting, Dom/sub, Domestic, Dry Humping, Edging, Fluff, Kissing, M/M, Oral, Original Fiction, Romance, ftm character, ftm/m
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-18
Updated: 2015-01-18
Packaged: 2018-03-08 00:49:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,755
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3189569
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EffingEden/pseuds/EffingEden
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hart isn't a stranger to the phrase "I love you" but he doesn't know what to do when someone says it and means it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I Hart U - a valentines story

**Author's Note:**

  * For [CheshireSparrowe](https://archiveofourown.org/users/CheshireSparrowe/gifts).



> Hart and Maynard started life as RP characters created by myself and Sparrowhawke. We are currently working on a novel with the pair, but this is a gift I created for Sparrow. Let us know if you enjoy it!

The first time Maynard had said “I love you,” it had been a shuddered gasp, so quiet his own breathing had almost drowned it out and so close to Hart’s skin he had felt it more than heard. They had been just words, then. Just a sound made in post-orgasm bliss. A reflex, nothing more. Only a fool would think it was anything serious, so he didn’t say anything back. Maynard’s love wasn’t for him.

 

_(He thought about it in the quiet cool light of dawn when they lay close as close could be. He thought about it in the tense yet dull moments of his work, waiting for a night guard to pass his hiding place, for his hacking programmes to grind through a server. He thought about it when he found himself on Maynard’s doorstep, half a second from knocking, urging him past hesitation._  
_I love you._  
_I love you._  
_I love you.)_

 

It was a few months before Maynard said it again.

 

Hart had been away for a week, the longest job he’d had since he and Maynard had started sleeping together. He wasn’t in the habit of telling anyone when he was coming or going, it was a difficult concept for him to grasp that anyone would much care. He’d come back into town mid-morning, picked the lock on Maynard’s door, locked it from the inside before stumbling up to the bedroom and collapsing on Maynard’s bed, taking Maynard’s side and nuzzling into the pillow, basking in his lover’s scent (fresh yet solid, almost like the ocean) as he relaxed into sleep.

 

He woke to fingers carding through his hair, so gentle and light and familiar. He made a low sound of contentment and twisted a little onto his back. The fingers tightened a moment, a brief tug before they relaxed again. “There you are,” Maynard murmured.

 

His eyes slit open, squinting against the light of the bedside lamp to see Maynard. He sat against the headboard, book in one hand. His dark hair, usually so neat, looked ruffled and his naturally grim expression was a little worn, but his lips were twisted up in a small smile. Hart felt himself echo it, reached up to catch Maynard’s wrist and kissed his fingertips. “Missed you,” he confessed.

 

Maynard rubbed the pad of his thumb over Hart’s lower lip. “You could have picked up a phone, idiot. I worried.”

 

He blinked slowly. “Why?” Maynard knew he could take care of himself, on way or the other. Most of the time.  

 

There was a snort of annoyance and the scowl deepened until it looked like thunder. “Because I love you, Kai.” Then he leaned close, cupped his jaw and kissed him. The angle was awkward, but Hart lifted into it, trying to let his lover know how sorry he was, trying to tell him he’d do better next time.

 

Even in his half-asleep state, he knew with every bit of him that Maynard didn’t mean those words, even though they made his chest tight and ache. He knew he wasn’t the type of person to have it, not for real. But they were pretty words, and he didn’t mind hearing Maynard say them. He knew when he was being fed bullshit, but sometimes it hurt less just to shut up and swallow.

 

The kiss broke and the silence waited to be filled. A patient sadness bled into Maynard’s expression, and Hart couldn’t bear it. “What you readin’?” Hart said, exhaustion slurring his words.

 

Maynard sighed and pulled away but allowed the change of topic. “‘Name of the Wind’ -- a fantasy thing. You probably won’t like it--”

 

“Read it to me?” he asked, twisting onto his side and curling towards the other man.

 

“I’m not doing the voices,” Maynard relented after a moment, marking his place before turning back to the start, his hand returning to tease Hart’s hair. He almost managed to stay awake for a full chapter.

 

_(Maynard took to saying it more frequently after that. Once a week. Twice. No more, but no less. Texts when Hart was away for longer than two days; a note tucked into a pocket; spoken softly to the nape of his neck after a bite; purred with gentle pride when Hart stuttered his safeword; snarled in heat and fury when Hart turned up bloodied and bruised; stated as fact over their morning coffee; hissed when he licked shower water from Maynard’s chest, tongue following the paired scars. He got use to hearing it. Started to look forwards to the next. Felt a bubbling dance of glee under his sternum when it came. It still wasn’t true, but neither were fantasy novels Maynard read to him, and he could still enjoy those._  
_I love you._  
_I love you._  
_I love you.)_

 

They lay on the sofa one evening, Hart pinned under, movie forgotten. Maynard sucked a throbbing mark into existance, too high on his neck for hide, nudged his thigh between Hart’s legs, urging him to rut up even as he pressed a hand against his hip, holding him down. He rubbed himself against Hart’s hip, crooned encouragement at the desperate, needy sounds that escaped him, bit down on his shoulder when he struggled and strained to take more than what Maynard offered. It was a slow and maddening torment made worse by the clothing they both still wore, keeping all contact muted, muffled.

 

Hart tried to reach between them once -- to open his fly and give himself some more space or stroke himself, getting that contact he needed to reach climax, but Maynard had noticed and snapped, “No,” so harsh and sharp Hart froze in place a second. Strong fingers curled around his wrist and pulled it away, pressed down firmly by his head. “No,” Maynard repeated, softer but no less firm. And then he started moving again, and Hart’s torment was no closer its end.

 

It took time, but Maynard didn’t relent. Hart bucked and cursed in an incoherent babble when he came, his senseless words cut off by a kiss that claimed him roughly. He broke it to gasp and pant at the air, shivering slightly from the power of orgasm. Maynard was still moving against him, seeking his own completion. It didn’t take much longer, and soon he was coming too with a harsh gasp, his nails biting crescents into Hart’s skin. He collapsed down when it was over, his breathing ragged. Hart stroked his back, holding him.

 

After a long few minutes, Hart squirmed. “I hope you feel as gross as I do. Ew,” he bitched. That didn’t get anything more than a soft, low laugh. Hart squirmed again, earning himself a growl and another bite. “Shower,” he insisted, prodding Maynard’s side. “Serious, I refuse to spend another moment wearing these.“ An unhappy growl. “No, s’your fault. Come on.”

 

It took a little longer to persuade Maynard to move, but he perked up, watching Hart strip down and followed him to the bathroom. They shared a shower, helping each other wash, distracting each other with kisses and wandering hands. And then Maynard said it again. “I love you.”

 

And Hart felt it. That falling, flying sensation, right there, in his chest. A burst of joy so bright and powerful he almost started laughing. Those ridiculous words. That lie he had told countless times to countless people, parroted back to him until it was almost senseless sound.

 

It was real.

 

And he didn’t know what to do.

 

_(He use to say it to Maynard. It seemed like the thing to do, and it had been easy. Natural. But Hart hadn’t said it once since Maynard had, that first time. He hadn’t lied, he’d been in love with Maynard since before they started fucking, since before he stole Maynard’s secret away from him, how could he not love him? It burned in the centre of him, like a star, brilliant and crystalline clear. But Maynard was worth loving. What Hart couldn’t grasp was how it might be returned. How anyone could feel that for him._  
_I love you._  
_I love you._  
_I love you.)_

 

He didn’t want to hear it anymore.

 

He did (he did) but he didn’t. It was more than he deserved, more than he was worth. Asking Maynard not too wouldn’t help. He’d ask why, he’d pull his bitchface and... no. He couldn’t just ask.

 

So Hart thought of a different way.

 

The next time Maynard said it was after a scene. They had tried something new, a knife. Maynard had said he wouldn’t cut, but Hart had begged. Maynard dragged the blade, just a little, here and there, to let him feel its bite. The cuts were shallow, mostly bloodless. It had been exciting, but it had left Maynard somewhat dazed, so it was Hart who went to fetch them the half eaten icecream to satisfy their post--fuck hungers.

 

Maynard made an obscene sound at the first spoon. “I lo--” he didn’t have the chance to finish. Hart ducked his head and caught Maynard’s mouth with his own, kissing him until he was sure words would not return. Maynard gave him a quizzical look and Hart sucked on his lower lip, making a show of enjoying the taste, bittersweet chocolate with a heady kick of liquor.

 

Another time, Hart was watching one of Maynard’s films, hair dye at work, black polish on his nails drying, when he heard the key in the door. He hid his head under the towel on his shoulders and as the door opened he shouted, “I’m not doing anything!”

 

There was a hesitation before the door closed. “Why don’t I believe you,” came Maynard’s suspicious reply a moment before he walked into view. His scowl became less suspicious and more perplexed at the sight of Hart’s covered head. “...Uh-huh. You know I know you dye your hair, right?”

 

“Lies and slander!” He stood, checking his nails hadn’t suffered and moved towards the stairs, meaning to retreat into the bathroom.

 

“You’re eyebrows--”

 

“ARE ADOPTED.”

 

That won him a bark of laughter. “You’re ridiculous. I lov--” Again, Hart managed to catch him in a kiss before he finished, a quick thing before he darted away. He glanced back, and saw a pensive look on Maynard’s face.

 

The third time, Maynard had asked him to help his agency as a consultant. It made Hart nervous but Maynard allowed him to use an alias, and managed to call him by his fake-name without more than a few pauses.

 

The work wasn’t difficult, and it let him see into Maynard’s world. After he was done, Maynard called him into his office to “double-check paperwork” which turned out to involve several long kisses and some heavy petting. Then Maynard stopped, the bastard, and growled, “Go home, stay hard, don’t you dare come. I’ll be home in a few hours.”

 

“ _Fuck_ ,” Hart hissed, but kissed him one last time before he straightened his clothes before he turned to the door.

 

He was taken by surprise when Maynard started, “I love yo--” and was a moment too late, but kissed Maynard anyway. When he pulled back, Maynard’s expression was sharp, thoughtful. As if something he had suspected had been confirmed. Hart didn’t wait to ask, but fled.

 

He did as he’d been told, keeping himself hard. Maynard liked these games, keeping him on the edge, seeing how long he could stay there, so finding that calm place in the waves of pleasure was almost easy. Hart liked them too, but he’d never say so, it would just encourage the sadistic bastard. A few times, probably when the paperwork became too tedious, Maynard would call him, give him orders, listened to the sounds Hart made. In retaliation, Hart sent him photos of his cock. Those, Maynard didn’t respond to, except once to ask for better lighting.

 

It was almost an eternity before Maynard came through the door. He had the audacity to look calm and unaffected, but there was a bright, predator’s gleam to his eyes. “Upstairs. Face up on the bed.”

 

He went, and Maynard followed after. He lay down, watched as Maynard opened his toy box and pulled out two sets of real handcuffs. The sight of them made him shiver. Maynard approached, stroking fingers from Hart’s ankle, over his knee, up his thigh, hesitating at his hip, his hungry, hunter’s gaze lingering on his cock before moving higher. He fastened one wrist to the headboard, then the other, keeping his hands parted so he’d not be tempted to slip free. As the second cuff clicked shut, Hart’s breathing stuttered and came swifter, shallower. Maynard hushed him, hand splayed on his chest, palm over his heart, rubbing him there until his breathing had calmed again, gaze intense.

 

“Hart,” Maynard said, warm, tender. “I love you.”

 

Hart forgot how to breathe for a moment, only remembering when Maynard leaned over him and gave him a chaste kiss. He tipped his head to touch his forehead to Hart’s, one hand braced by his head while the other, over his heart, began to move, circling, drifting lower over his ribs and belly. “You can be such a fucking idiot. Just because you stopped me saying it doesn’t stop me. Do you not want me to say it? Is that it?” Hart said nothing. Couldn’t say anything. Maynard stopped moving, a frown on his face. “Say your safeword, Kai.” He did, and Maynard relaxed with a nod. “Say it if you want me to stop.”

 

“I know,” Hart muttered with an eyeroll, but he relaxed, feeling safer than he had a moment before. He knew Maynard would listen. He knew he cared.

 

The hand started to move again, stroking up and down his hip and thigh, inching closer then easing away again, making Hart’s hips twitch. “I love you,” Maynard said again, pulling away when he felt Hart try to rise, try to stifle the words with a kiss. “Why? Why try to stop me? Do you dislike it?”

 

It was hard to think, hard to focus. “No, it’s not-- I like it. Fuck, please, Maynard--”

 

“Soon,” he promised. “Just tell me why you stop me saying it.”

 

A sound of frustration tore from Hart, hands jerking against the cuffs. They weren’t padded and it hurt. “Because I like hearing it, I like hearing it be true. What if you stop? What if you say it and it’s not true? It’s cruel bullshit!”

 

Maynard let him finish, watching his anger listening to his fear, mouth twisted down is something close to a snarl. “I can’t promise to always love you. That would be cruel bullshit. But I can promise to only say it, when I mean it. But you have to let me say it. Deal?”

 

He didn’t have to think long on that. “Yes.”

 

“Good. Now I’m going to blow you. Wait until I tell you that you can come.” All the response he got was a growl, and he smirked, then kissed his way down Hart’s body, taking his time. When he got to Hart’s cock, he pumped it a few times then watched how Hart twisted and gasped when he rubbed the pad of his thumb against the weeping slit. Then he swallowed Hart down, and Hart sobbed at the pleasure, the overstimulation, the battle he fought to keep control while sensation tried to overwhelm him.

 

Maynard could keep him on that terrible, wonderful brink for hours when he (when they) felt like it, guiding him to a place where there was only pleasure, waxing and waning but constant all the same... but not tonight. Maynard sensed Hart needed something gentler this time, less overwhelming, so he pulled back, and ordered Hart to come for him, and took his head back into his mouth.

 

Hart’s hips bucked as he spent himself, panting so hard his whole body shook from it. Maynard crawled his way up Hart’s body and kissed him slow and deep, letting him breath when he wanted but returning to the kiss again until the shivers had stopped. “Kaiser,” he said, shaking sure he had his attention before saying again, firm and fierce, “I love you.”

  
Hart gave him a shy half grin, afraid to believe but willing to trust. “Say it again?”

**Author's Note:**

> Follow Hart's blog [here](http://czar-hart.tumblr.com/) if you'd like. We'll drop updates on the novel in there too.
> 
> also, sorry-not-sorry for the pattern of three 'ilu's. It was too much fun and fit so well.


End file.
